Charles leaned against the bar, the ache in his ribs a constant reminder of the night before. His eyes tracked Matilda as she cleaned a row of mugs with a rag that had seen better days.
"What do you know about those bear fuckers from before?" he asked, his voice low and cold. There was no warmth in the question—just steel and ice.
Matilda paused, gave him a sidelong glance. "Not much, actually. I see them now and then. Loud types. Mostly trouble."
Charles frowned. That wasn't good enough. He needed names, habits, weaknesses—anything. He leaned in slightly.
"And you don't know anyone who might know more? Discreetly, I mean."
Matilda thought for a moment, then smirked. "We could ask my husband. Clovis used to be a merc. Still has some friends from the old days who haven't drunk themselves into the grave yet. Might've seen something." She turned toward the back of the room. "Hey! Clovis! Get over here!"
A large, broad-shouldered man stomped over, wearing a grimace that deepened with every step. Still, when he reached them, he offered Matilda a forced smile.
"Is something wrong?" he asked, politely enough.
Charles watched him with interest. The man towered over most, muscles stretching the seams of his shirt. But here he was, coming when called. It wasn't hard to see who ruled this roost.
"Charles has a few questions for you," Matilda said plainly.
Clovis's face twisted into a scowl as he turned to Charles.
"What do you want, brat?"
Plesk!
Matilda's hand cracked down on the back of his head. Clovis winced but didn't move.
"How many times do I have to tell you?" she growled. "Be polite to our guests."
He grumbled, rubbing the back of his skull. "Fine. What do you want to know?"
Charles didn't waste time. He listed everything—the Bear Brothers, their friends, routines, favorite haunts, drinking spots. Every detail could matter.
Clovis scratched his beard. "I've seen them around, once or twice. They're known in a few circles. Merc types, like me, but… less disciplined. More like thugs with muscle."
That wasn't enough. Charles's expression didn't shift, but disappointment edged into the silence.
Matilda crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at her husband.
Clovis sighed. "Alright, alright. I'll ask around. Some of the old crew still owe me favors. I'll have something by tomorrow night."
"Thank you," Charles said. "I'll buy you a drink sometime."
Clovis grunted. "Who'd want to drink with a little—"
Matilda raised her hand again.
"—I mean, sure. Glad to help."
The two returned to the bar as the tavern began to fill. Locals arrived in waves, laughter and clinking mugs building with the aroma of spiced hare meat drifting from the kitchen.
Charles lingered a while, finishing his drink slowly. His ribs throbbed with every breath, every shift of his weight. Eventually, the ache nudged him toward the stairs.
---
Upstairs, in the quiet of his rented room, he sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the worn backpack resting by the wall.
The eggs.
He'd nearly forgotten.
Rising with a wince, he opened the pack carefully and peered inside. The strange serpentine eggs were still nestled in cloth and hay, their surfaces faintly warm to the touch.
Something coiled inside him—half wonder, half fear.
What the hell am I doing with these things?
Can they be tamed? Or even hatched like this?
Questions without answers. For now, his body demanded rest. He stretched out, muscles groaning, eyes already closing. Thoughts turned muddy in the tide of exhaustion.
---
The next morning hit like a dagger to the ribs.
"Fuuuck…" he hissed through clenched teeth, bolting upright too fast. Pain exploded under his skin. Every wound lit up, bright and cruel.
He had to bite his lip to keep from crying out.
His hands trembled. His chest burned. Even breathing hurt.
No sudden movements today. That's for damn sure.
It felt like his whole body was stitched together with glass and bad decisions. But the healing was steady. Two or three more days, maybe, and he'd be in fighting shape again.
Breakfast was slow and utilitarian—coarse bread, scrambled eggs, and some kind of bitter tea that seemed designed to insult the tongue.
Halfway through, a knock came at the door. The delivery boy from the tailor's stood outside, much earlier than expected. Charles paid him with a tip that made the kid's eyes light up, then carried the bundle upstairs.
He stripped off the ragged remnants of the previous day, each motion stiff and deliberate, then dressed carefully.
The fit was perfect—eerily so.
A black leather vest over a clean gray shirt. Fitted black trousers. A long, dark cape with a subtle shimmer to the weave. The boots—soft leather, sturdy, silent. His enchanted daggers hung snug at his hips from a new belt.
He stared at the golden ring—engraved with the Panther Tribe crest. His past. His bloodline. His curse.
He slid it on without hesitation.
No point hiding. Trouble always finds me anyway.
---
Downstairs, his transformation drew attention. A few heads turned. A few whispers followed. Miranda leaned over the bar with a grin.
"Well, well. From ragman to noble bastard, are we?"
He smirked. "Just trying to blend in."
"You look like death in a dinner coat."
"Good."
---
The city library was cold stone and colder stares. But the halls were quiet, and the books plentiful.
Charles spent hours there, poring over ancient tomes thick with dust and dense magical theory. The elf librarian—sharp-eyed and disinterested—let him be.
Bit by bit, he gathered fragments of truth.
To tame a monster required a familiar contract. Magical. Costly. Dangerous. And worst of all—only one attempt was allowed. If it failed, that was it. Forever.
Monsters bred only when saturated with mana. Their offspring—eggs or otherwise—could hibernate for years, absorbing energy until strong enough to hatch.
Which meant the eggs weren't dead. Not yet. As long as they received mana, they'd survive.
But how much had they absorbed already? And how much more would they need?
Days? Months? Years?
If he had magical talent, he could transfer mana himself—bond with them. Become their parent, in the eyes of the spell.
If not… he'd need someone else. Someone powerful. Loyal. Discreet.
Someone willing to risk having their essence bitten in half.
Please, he thought. Let me have at least some affinity. Some gift. I can't afford to be helpless.
---
He left the library late in the afternoon, mind numb, shoulders tight, but the fire inside him alive and growing. The eggs could wait. Revenge could not.
The tavern was crowded by the time he returned. More hare meat for dinner. A few weeks ago, he might've relished it. Now it tasted like obligation.
Clovis found him at a corner table, pulling out the chair across from him.
"Hey, boy. I got what you wanted. But before I tell you anything…"
Charles looked up, sensing a shift in tone.
"You have to promise me something," Clovis said. His voice was serious now, low and firm. "Swear—on the lives of everyone you ever cared about—that you'll never tell anyone this came from me."
Charles tilted his head. "Why?"
Clovis's jaw tightened. "Because I know your kind. You've got that look. You're not after a warning. You want blood. And the Bear Brothers? They're connected. Guild ties, protection, people in the city guard. If you stir the wrong pot, it won't just be you who burns. And if the law comes sniffing, I need to be invisible. So—do you swear?"
Charles didn't hesitate.
"I swear."
Clovis exhaled like he'd been holding it in for hours.
Poor bastard, Charles thought. Would you still be so relieved if you knew everyone I cared about was already dead?
He met Clovis's eyes.
"Can you tell me now?"